


We Must Be Killers

by SatanInACroptop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ANGST WITH A SIDE OF HYSTERIA, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Canon assholes are portrayed as such, Character Death, F/M, I probably won't kill everyone you love, LOTS OF PANIC ATTACKS, M/M, No but seriously they happen and if thats a thing that is not for you turn back now, Panic Attacks, Slow Build, Summer Fic, TW: Panic Attacks, hopefully, like Big Dig slow yo I no joke you, the kind you want dead though so DONT PANIC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatanInACroptop/pseuds/SatanInACroptop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knows he should be afraid of whatever the fuck Derek’s keeping to himself, but honestly, his beehive of a mind is too busy buzzing about the other thing Derek failed to discuss. And that, in Stiles mind, could only mean one thing.</p><p>Gerard isn't Derek’s main problem anymore.</p><p>That made him Stiles’ problem. Because hero or not, Stiles knows what’s out there now, and that means he doesn't get to do nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hyper Vigilance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_wallace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_wallace/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta, so all spelling mistakes are mine and mine alone. If you catch something, lemme know. I have a writing degree and I'll basically screech if/when I find them later. Typos are the cardinal sin of the English major. 
> 
> Obviously I don't own Teen Wolf, I am not Jeff Davis, I do not own an elixir made of fandom tears. (I do like to add them to a fine wine though)
> 
> This fic gifted and dedicated to the amazing [TorieStark](http://toriestark.tumblr.com/) for talking me through all of this. She is a brilliant and amazing lady, without whom I would have never written a word. Thanks babu, this ones for you <3

When Stiles drives home from the warehouse that night, he doesn’t think he’ll sleep at all, the adrenaline surging through him from almost getting his face ripped off by the fucking kanima (thanks Jackson), Gerard almost killing everyone, Allison gone psycho, and oh who the fuck invited Peter Hale to the party?! But as it turns out getting your ass kicked is actually pretty fucking exhausting. Stiles is out the moment his body sinks into the familiar warmth of his bed.

In his dreams Gerard is some new disturbing cross between a kanima and Venom from Spiderman. His mouth drips black ooze as it hisses “Vengeance”, before it sinks into his flesh and tears out a piece of his side, insides slipping outside, his intestines pouring out of him as he tries in vain to hold it together. Always, always holding it together. But they slide slick through his fingers, impossibly slippery and warm.

He doesn’t wake up screaming, that would require air. Stiles comes to consciousness clutching his sides, wheezing for oxygen that his body is refusing to give. The sound of his heartbeat is thundering through his ears, erratic and impossibly loud, like it could wake the Pack from across town.

His sides are aching, and for a moment his hands go up his shirt just to check that yes, his insides are all where they belong. His hands scrub over his hair and down his neck and he can’t think outside of Oh My God I’m Going To Die There Is No Way I’m Going To Survive, but he has. He told himself he couldn’t survive his mom, and he did. Stilinski’s are survivors. He hears a voice, a whimper, “I’mgonnadie-I’mgonnadie-I’mgonnadie-I’mgonna,” and he realizes that it’s his own. And finally, too many minutes too long, he’s breathing. Gasping, and the heave of his lungs fucking hurts, and again, he checks, because he can still feel the greasy slip of his intestines like some phantom touch. But its just that, its not fucking real.

“Not today, anyway,” he croaks, voice still not back just yet.

When his lungs are no longer burning like a drowning person, he reaches for his phone. It reads 3:34am, one new message.

Scott McCall, 3:15am: Hey, you still up?

Stiles walks over to his bedroom window, legs still shaking, but they do not give. His dad’s cruiser is not in the driveway. He’s not sure he wants to see Scott. He knows, logically, that it is not his fault. Scott could have never known that the Argents would take him, that they would go so far as to harm a human. He weighs his options, and then he’s texting Scott and scribbling a note on the fridge that he’s staying at Scotts to celebrate their lacrosse victory over pizza and videogames.

He’s starting the Jeep before he realizes that he’s outside and shit Gerard could be right fucking there and he would never know it. And that’s when he knows he needs to see Scott, mostly stupid anger aside.

The panic attacks only ever hit him when he’s alone.

He revs the engine a little too hard, and if he’s at Scotts in record time, he took a new short cut.

He makes a mental note as he unlocks the McCall’s front door with his key to change the oil and check the transmission fluid. Fuel injector cleaner probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

Scott is all bright smiles when he walks through the bedroom door, a plate of pizza rolls and a bottle of Dr. Pepper with a glass already laid out on a Chemistry Book Made Bed Table on Stiles favorite corner of the bed. He gives Scott a detailed play-by-play of his amazing victory over rounds of Call of Duty until the sun comes up. The 2-liter bottle is empty, and Stiles has taken quite a few Adderall. He doesn’t feel tired, he feels awake and sharp, if only a little jittery.

Scott doesn’t ask about his face, though there is definitely an effort being made to do so. He gets one text, from Derek, who reads on his phone as Jerk. Stiles looks over his shoulder to read. “Gerard’s body not yet found. Boyd and Erica still missing.”

Scott’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, clearly debating what to do. “If Derek wanted your help, he would ask,” Stiles says, Scott jerking around to give him Puppy Lost In The Woods look, “Well, not ask, but he would tell you.”

Scott nods mutely, sliding the phone shut and shoving it in his pocket. Stiles is trying to remain calm as his worst fears are realized. Gerard Fucking Psycho Killer I Am No Longer A Human Being Argent is still alive. His heart is racing and Scott is looking at him with big brown eyes and the Sad Puppy face.

“Stiles?”

“Its fine, I just, I thought we were missing school,” he laughs, and punches Scott on the arm, “but it’s Saturday!”

Scott nods, and laughs it off. Stiles doesn’t want to leave, not now, not yet. God please don’t let him be alone now, his body is only breathing because he sees Scott doing so, it’s like his natural survival mechanism, teenage boy see, teenage boy do. So when Scott asks if wants to have pancakes and practice out on the field, because Stiles finally has a shot at first line and Scott wants to see his “mad skills”, he says yes in the span of a heartbeat.

Stiles climbs into his Jeep after breakfast, and he cringes. The bruises have done that thing they do, that the worst fucking ones always do. He’s gotten them before, from the night he almost died at the police station. When his back looked not too bad before he went to bed, and the next morning the whole damn thing was a rainbow of colors and swollen to the touch.

Well now the same thing has happened on his goddamn face, and everywhere else he can’t currently see. His busted lip is swollen and awful. The scratches on his cheek are nothing compared to the angry purple and red bruising around it, covering the entire left side of his face. It’s not black yet, that will take another 48 hours. In 72 it will turn a sickly green, and after a week it will be jaundice yellow. It will take two weeks or more to heal entirely. He’s memorized it by now, but now he has to wear it on his fucking face for the world to see. And now that he sees it, it fucking hurts. His face looks as uneven as Scott’s jawline now.

“Okay, ow.”

“Stiles, I need to know what happened,” and for once, Scott isn’t asking. So Stiles relents, with the best lie he can come up with. The story he mulled over his head while he drove home last night. The one’s he revised for over and over while Scott talked about his break-up with Allison all night and into the morning dawn.

“Gerard took me, and threw me in a basement with Boyd and Erica,” Stiles eyes shoot open and he looks at Scott in awe because god fucking damnit why didn’t he realize of it sooner, “OH MY GOD you don’t think?!”

Scott shakes his head, looking defeated.

“No, Chris let them go. I checked. So Gerard did this to you?”

“I know, right? Pretty spry for an old dying dude.”

“Why?”

Stiles swallows, and he thinks of the story, thinks that Scott can hear his heartbeat right fucking now. He starts the Jeep with a little too much force as he answers.

“Because I’m the human,” and he pulls out of the driveway, and no one says anything after that.

~*~

They practice for what feels like hours. Scott totally uses his wolf powers no matter how many times Stiles tells him not to, and yet, it’s alright. Its…good, even. Scott is venting about his break-up with Allison, and Stiles is launching lacrosse balls at him with pretty damn good force. At one point Scott is mooning over his destiny with Allison, and Stiles pegs him a little too close for comfort. He is thoroughly disappointed when he doesn’t howl, but the face alone is priceless.

And honestly, it’s that he doesn’t howl, that makes it good. Its good and its normal. Stiles gets a few in the net and for a few moments it feels so normal he can almost pretend that he is.

And then Scott’s phone rings to the tune of Bad Moon Rising. He takes the next ball to the head while he answers his phone. Stiles would laugh, on any other given day. Instead he just smiles his big ‘I kicked your ass’ smile.

Scott isn’t smiling when he hangs up.

“What is it?”

Scott shakes his head, and for a moment, he looks just as lost as Stiles feels.

“I don’t know, he just said to meet him at the Hale house.”

“That sounds ominous, did he say anything about…?” and Stiles cannot make his tongue say any of their names.

“No news on Gerard, or Erica and Boyd,” Scott answers with a frown.

Stiles drops Scott off at the edge of the preserve. This time when Stiles is quiet for the whole drive, Scott doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He does ask if he wants to come with. Stiles just shrugs, the movement stiff and over exaggerated in his red hoodie, and says he wasn’t invited, and should probably spend some time with his Dad before he’s grounded for a month.

“Keep me posted,” Stiles says with his best I’m Okay smile and a casual wave, before he takes off down the dirt road, leaving Scott with a mildly bewildered expression.

But Stiles isn’t going home. He needs to see a man about a spell, or ten.

~*~

The vet’s office is closed when he gets there. At noon. On a Saturday. And it’s REALLY closed. All of the doors are locked, and Deaton’s truck isn’t in the lot.

Stiles has to see Deaton. He has questions that need answers and he’s fairly certain he won’t survive the night without some sort of supernatural protection. Call it a hunch, call it that drowning feeling, but he’s pretty damn sure that nothing is actually finished here. Not until Gerard has his vengeance. Not until everyone is dead, just as he ordered the kanima-now-Jackson-again to do. And then he’s thinking about death by kanima Gerard and then Stiles isn’t thinking about anything apart from I Can’t Breathe.

He’s still thinking about freaking Argents when his body realizes again how oxygen works and what logic is for when he remembers something Scott said in the middle of an Allison Argent Is My Destiny ramble.

Victoria Argent’s funeral is today.

He throws the Jeep into first and takes off without giving it a second thought.

~*~

When Stiles and Scott were dealing with the Alpha, Stiles started looking into ways to protect himself, ways that he could work with. Weaponizing wolfsbane was his top choice, in something other than a gun, but then everything went haywire and before he had a chance to follow it through, Peter Hale was dead.

But now Peter is alive again (zombie werewolf or werewolf zombie? Stiles hasn’t decided which), and Gerard is a freaking monster, and there has never been a better time to test it.

Stiles is making good use of his family data plan, thumbing over the recipe one last time. He’ll need at least a pound for a batch. Chris’ truck isn’t there, but who knows how long they’ve been gone for. He can’t afford to waste any time.

Stiles starts for the front door, but he pauses, because idiot, Victoria used pure wolfsbane to almost-kill Scott, not a bullet. And besides, where the hell do hunters buy wolfsbane bullets?

“Easy answer, dumbass, they don’t,” he mutters to himself, and goes around the house to the backyard, where the gate is unlocked. "They make them."

And there lies an expensive greenhouse containing the Herb Garden of Death. There are so many types of wolfsbane that he wonders if Scott could even stand next to him and breathe right now. But Stiles remembers, he knows what to look for. He even has the picture pulled up on his phone.

Nordic Blue Monkshood.

It’s in the far back corner, the gardener equivalent of the top shelf. There’s a moment that passes over him as he stands over the toxic flowers that this garden was probably Victoria’s pride and joy. And there is no way in hell Chris and Allison aren’t going to notice this.

But Victoria nearly killed Scott, and Kate killed Derek’s entire family, and fucking Gerard, so Stiles doesn’t really have pity, or remorse. He just rips up the plants by the root, wearing Victoria’s own gardening gloves, tosses them into his empty gym bag, and leaves.

Next stop – the grocery store.

Essence of wolfsbane isn’t going to make itself.

~*~

Owning a car at Stiles’ age does not come without a price. When his father gifted Stiles with his mom’s old Jeep, Stiles was given a choice. He could run errands with it whenever Dad asked, or he could get a job and pay for it himself. Stiles chose option a, obviously. He loves his father very much, and with his long hours, the Sheriff clearly needs the help. That’s why every Saturday Stiles is given a list of groceries and cash to cover the costs.

Stiles likes grocery shopping. Controlling his father’s diet gives him a sense of calm, as if somehow the Sheriff eats enough vegetables, Stiles can keep him around forever, heart condition be damned. He uses the short drive to come up with a convincing story for his face, which is starting to throb again now that he’s not distracted by his blinding rage for the Argents and their love of killing people.

“I was celebrating with Scott, and I fell, off the porch,” Stiles recites, poking gingerly at the black, blue, and red that encompasses much of the right side of this face. The swelling in around his eye has gone down though. He pulls the Jeep into park, and yanks the hood of his red sweater up with a little too much force, and it helps, hides most of the damage.

With the Argent’s funeral, and the little league game at the park, the store is fortunately not very busy. Stiles doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, he knows you can avoid most conversation that way. He is an expert on remaining unnoticed. Its not until he’s weighing the health benefits versus edibility on turkey or veggie burgers that he gets that someone’s watching me feeling. It usually accompanies seeing Derek Hale outside his bedroom window. When he looks up, the sight isn’t so familiar. Its no one he’s ever seen before. He tries not to stare, to see around the corner of his vision without completely giving himself away.

There’s two guys watching him while they pick out a brisket. They’re twins, and they’re not being subtle about it. There’s an arrogance to the way they stare him down, a twist to their matching grins that doesn’t say normal. Hunters maybe? But why would hunters still be interested in him?

Stiles’ heart is slamming into his ribs like it wants to abandon ship as he holds up the package of veggie burgers, and takes a picture with his phone. It’s a very nice phone, it can take pictures with a flash. He doesn’t look at the photo, because if he does, he is not going to make it out of the store alive. His dad is lucky, he gets to eat turkey tonight.

Stiles power walks to the natural foods section and grabs chamomile tea, lemongrass, and grape seed oil and gets to the checkout like he’s on Shop till You Drop. He manages to resist the urge to look at his phone again until he’s in the house with every door and window locked. There, in the upper right hand corner, he’s managed to catch one of them with their eyes open.

He can’t even make out the face, the lens glare is so bright.

Stiles sends it to Derek Hale with a snide “Friends of yours?” because fucking werewolves. Are fucking everywhere. And they’re gonna be the death of him.

The panic attack that follows lasts for fifteen agonizing minutes, one quarter of an hour. It is the longest of his entire life.

The moment Stiles is thinking and breathing anything passing for normal again, he’s back to work. He knows the recipe because he’s gone over it a hundred times, and it consists of only two things; grapeseed oil, and wolfsbane. Stiles takes down the dusty crockpot from its place on top of the fridge. It hasn’t been used since his mom’s death. She would make the best beef stews on a cold winter’s night. Stiles handles the carafe gently as he rinses out the dust, as if the slightest nudge will cause the inch-thick ceramic to break. He’s jumping at every noise, from passing cars on the road to squirrels in the yard. It’s only when he goes to cut the wolfsbane, wearing gloves and goggles he borrowed from the chemistry lab that he realizes he’s shaking.

Stiles gets a gold medal for not cutting himself. Or at least he does in his own mind. Where there is a familiar big guy patting him on the back, which is totally impossible, because he’s pretty sure said guy could not even be in the same room right now. What Stiles really gets when he’s done is the satisfaction of being back in control of all major organs and limbs, and a piping hot shower. Where he does not have a panic attack, thank freaking god. Stiles scrubs down, and tries to think ahead. Look at the bigger picture.

He needs to come up with a plan, something other than arming up and defensive measures. He knows that if he can just get all the facts straight and apply enough logic, account for as many scenarios as possible, the fear that feels like its going to crawl out of his throat to tear him to pieces will back off to its usual place in the pit of his stomach. For now, Stiles swallows it down, and forces the ever-present hysteria back with iron determination, and asks himself “What are you really afraid of, Stiles?”

He’s not afraid of dying, not really. It’s inevitable. But he can choose how he goes, how he is not going to die. Who is not going to take the world from him. And you can be sure as shit it is not going to be an 80 year old psychopath dying of cancer. This is not Saw. 

Stiles Stilinski is afraid of being caught. Afraid of being weak, of being the fragile human. Just because the boy doesn’t turn into a mythological beast does not make him powerless.

“And I am only as weak as I allow myself to be.”

He really does have a lot more than sarcasm at his beck and call. Now if only Stiles could convince the other 90% of himself of this, because as he’s shutting off the water and reaching for a towel, he’s having a hard enough time trying to convince his eyes to stay open. And despite the nightmares, which are constantly replaying softly in the back of his mind, like a made for tv horror movie on low, Stiles gets to the point of giving in, where flopping into his bed and waking up when the wolfsbane extract is done sounds like the best thing in the world since the invention of the curly fry.

Stiles shuffles into his bedroom, towel ready to slide off bony hips to do just that, only to shut the door and find Derek I Don’t Believe In Doors or Knocking Freaking Hale standing on the other side of it. He has that intense look that usually means someone is dead, or dying, or in immediate danger of both.

“Oh my god!” Stiles gasps, long fingers quickly snapping up the towel, which is in danger of dipping seriously low.

Derek counters with ‘bitch face’, and its super effective. Stiles grip on the towel tightens.

“What. Happened.”

Stiles scrubs a free hand over his hand, because suddenly he feels like a total idiot. Derek is clearly running around trying to find his pack and here he is getting him all worked up over a couple of new wolves in town. Who he saw at the grocery store, buying food, like regular people. And yet, they didn’t feel regular and they didn’t feel safe at all. But is it just paranoia, or a gut feeling with some truth?

“I dunno, man, they were just creeping on me,” he takes a breath, trying to recall exactly what prompted him to snap the shot in the first place, “I felt like that freaking gazelle in every nature documentary ever, like they were stalking me. But why would they?” Because Stiles is pretty sure that despite what Gerard thought, Stiles is not actually that important to the pack. He isn’t a wolf, he isn’t a hero, he’s just some dumb teenager whose best friend got turned into a werewolf.

Derek raises a single eyebrow into his hair line that means ‘really?’ in sourwolf speak, turns, and grabs Stiles’ red hoodie off the bed.

“You were wearing this?”

Stiles nods, and wishes he was wearing a lot more right now.

“It smells like Scott,” he says, and he says it with disgust, which yea, Scott used him in his plan to take down Gerard without telling him, because no way in hell Derek would have gone through with it otherwise. Stiles can’t defend it either way, he wasn’t informed either.

“So, what, they think I’m one of you now?”

“No, but they will know you’re associated with us,” and that makes Derek look genuinely worried, and makes Stiles glad he got out of that store as fast as humanly possible.

“I’m gonna take a guess and says that’s a bad thing, judging by your face of impending doom.”

Derek’s answer is an overdramatic eye roll as he drops the article of clothing back on the navy comforter.

“What has Scott told you?”

And now its Stiles’ turn to be annoyed.

“Nothing, why?” he huffs, so annoyed he almost forgets that he’s more or less naked, “What the hell is going on now? Did you find anything?”

“No.”

Stiles scrubs the hand not holding his towel up over his head, biting his lip around a swear. Then he swears because he’s managed to bite his split lip open again for the third time today. He reminds himself that the last time he punched Derek Hale, the not-then-Alpha was unconscious, and it had still hurt like hell.

Said Alpha has creeped up into his personal space when Stiles looks up again. Stiles tongue sweeps over his bottom lip, a vain attempt to clean it of blood, and Derek’s eyes flash red again, tracking the movement. This is usually Stiles’ cue to flinch and take three steps back. But Stiles Stilinski flinched his last when a geriatric beat his face in and pummeled him to a pulp. He’s not flinching anymore. Oh no. Now, he’s yelling.

“Really? After everything I’ve done for you? REALLY?! I’ve saved your life more times than any of the damn wolf pack and you still don’t trust me.”

Derek doesn’t say anything for a beat, but his stubbled jaw ticks like a bomb about to explode.

“What. Happened. Stiles.”

“Oh my god!” he says, again, because he’s tired and naked and freaking Derek Hale is in his room sitting at his desk now like he fucking owns the place. “Nothing happened at the grocery story, alright? I just, I thought that maybe they were friends of yours,” Stiles eyes are cold as he looks disdainfully into Derek’s red, “But you don’t have any of those, do you?”

Derek’s mouth has fangs when he opens it again, and he’s speaking with clenched fist and inhuman undertones.

“I wasn’t talking about the twins,” and Stiles looks to where his red eyes are pointedly staring. The map of bruises and wounds that tell the tale of Gerard’s anger and hatred of anyone associated with werewolves, least of all the ones who killed his daughter, is a large and painful one. God, death is too good for that decrepit psycho, but Stiles doesn’t know what else to do to him, other than feed him to ravenous sharks, let him be torn apart by hungry bears…he’s given this some thought in the shower.

Stiles can’t speak, despite Derek’s silent plea to do so, really, it’s all in those damn eyebrows, which are currently in the “tell me what the fuck happened” position. He manages to keep the towel up, which is some kind of feat. For a few moments Stiles can’t hear anything but his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and an old man’s cruel laughter.

Stiles face is not the worst of it, it’s just the worst anyone can see, and Stiles has found if he avoids looking at it, thinks about something else, it hurts him less too. There’s bruising around his ribs that makes the ones on his face pale in comparison. They make up a network that stretch around his sides to his back, where he had curled up to avoid permanent and life-threatening injury. Gerard had laughed and called him weak and foolish, not strong enough to play with rabid dogs, while his steel-toed boots kicked open wounds into his back. They are just barely scabbed over now, and Stiles was careful to avoid them in the shower. He can see them in the mirror behind him, and now, so can Derek. Awesome. Could Stiles day possibly get any better?

Obviously not, because when Stiles opens his eyes again, Derek is standing, not sitting, and there’s almost no space between them. The look of open concern Derek is showing could make him fucking cry, really, it could. Except that Derek Hale is the asshole of an alpha who still don’t trust him to help. Help that Stiles has given time and time again, to great success, he might add. So, fuck it.

“Ya know what Derek? Fine. Not my business? Then this isn’t yours. So why are you even here?”

And so the Alpha Mask slips back into place, a clever facade of cold, callous intention. It comes complete with the terrifying Alpha voice that sounds right out of a bad horror movie when he speaks.

“Stay home Stiles. And lock your doors.”

Stiles knows he should be afraid of whatever the fuck Derek’s keeping to himself, but honestly, his beehive of a mind is too busy buzzing about the other thing Derek failed to discuss. And that, in Stiles mind, could only mean one thing.

Gerard isn’t Derek’s main problem anymore.

That made him Stiles’ problem. Because hero or not, Stiles knows what’s out there now, and that means he doesn’t get to do nothing.

Even as Derek pulls a signature Batman exit out the window.

He debates calling after him to get the Camaro a Batman symbol, and then ouch, that hurts. Derek hadn’t seen his parents mugged and shot in an alleyway, no, Stiles knows his survivor’s guilt is far worse than that. Because Stiles knows the truth about Kate Argent. The truth about why Derek can never share anything, not information or a simple opinion, with anyone, and its nothing to do with him being an asshole. Sometimes, if Stiles thinks about the young Alpha for too long, he comes to the possible conclusion that Derek’s emotionless expression is really just the best poker face in the poker face history of mankind, because even emotions are information shared and a possible weakness to be exploited.

Then Stiles gets right back to being pissed off at him for walking in here, likes always, expecting something for nothing in return.

“Asshole.”

And for once, Stiles is glad for the anger. It stops the manic buzzing, clears his panicky thoughts, and gives him a focus.

He gets dressed, and goes down to stir his new liquid weapon, and doesn’t think about how he should feel different about plotting first degree murder.

Because Gerard Argent is a murderous psychopath, so screw him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though its been a few years, I have in fact had panic attacks, so if this is triggering for you, heads up, there will be more later. Panic is a theme in this fic, because most teenagers dont just deal with murderous psychopaths with cool bravado. 
> 
> I write for a living, this is what I do (no, not fanfic, though if I ever get paid to write Teen Wolf stories, I will officially sign away my soul to Jeff Davis), so please if you have a moment and could leave me a comment with any of your thoughts or opinions, what works and anything that doesn't, I am forever grateful to you.
> 
> Love Teen Wolf and creepy things? Check out my tumblr at Licensetocreep. :3


	2. Detachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles flails in exasperation because this is his fucking life, where Stiles actually learns magic that works that isn't from a Harry Potter book or a DnD manual, and none of his friends can actually see it.
> 
> Seriously, his fucking life.

Stiles is not asleep when his dad comes home from work, but he does a very good job pretending to be, and the Sherrif is too worn out from a day of figuring out how the hell that Jackson kid died and came back to life to call his son on it. He makes sure not to move for at least 10 minutes after the door for his Dad's room has remained closed. He has managed to keep the latest developments of Gerard's handiwork a secret for this long, and he is determined to keep it that way.

If only he could make this stupid spell work.

The Sheriff so far has only seen the immedaite effects, the two or three cuts and scrapes that were scattered across his mouth and jaw. If his father sees the true depth of the damage, a simple story of douchebag lacrosse bullies will not be enough to get the Sheriff to drop it. No, his dad would demand the truth, and the truth is something Stiles cannot give. Not only because its dangerous, or that he may not believe him, but because Stiles is only human, and it's not his secret to share. It belongs to Scott. And Isaac, and Boyd, and Erica, and Jackson. And...Derek. Who he still wants to punch in the face. With brass knuckles dipped in wolfsbane.

"Why the hell is it that I can stop a freaking kanima , but I can't fix this one stupid thing?"

Stiles can feel it already, rising up to ensnare his chest and threatening to crawl ouf of his throat.  
Then he remembers through the pain of that which he was fighting to hide what Deaton had told him just a few days ago.

"You need to be that spark."

Stiles knows what he has to do, the same thing he did when he had only a handful of mountain ash in his nervous hand to bridge the many feet wide gap. He thinks of his mom, pcitures her standing beside him as she always did during the many experiments of his youth. Her smile, bright, and no matter what he did, even that one time he broke the garbage disposal, she always said the very same thing.

"You can do anything you set your brilliant mind to."

He swears he can feel her hand at his back when he applies the tincture to his face for the eleventh time, and finally, the bruises disappear. They're not healed, they're just concealed with magical coverup. They still ache with their own sickening pulse, and all nice thoughts of his mother's memory are suddenly replaced with Gerard Argent telling him he're nothing more than a message, and should be grateful that he needs to be alive to deliver it.

Stiles knows better. He knows that if Scott could come so close to killing the pscyho, than he can find a way to finish the job. And as he carefully stirs and monitors the wolfsbane's progress while his dad sleeps through the night, he's glad for Derek's information empass. As long as they remain at a stand off, Stiles can keep Scott and the others in the dark, and as long as they stay remaining unaware, they won't make a move to stop him.

The essentail oil doesn't turn an herbal green like the recipe's original mint infusion would have, but a sickening, briney shade of putrid purple. He bottles it through the sunrise in various glass jars he's been saving for the day this would come. The last dregs go into a tiny blue spritz bottle he found at the dollar store in town, and he smirks as it says Werewolf B-Gone in marker on it. Before he closes the last jar, he dips the whole six inch blade inside, letting it drip the excess back to dry. Only then does Stiles close his eyes for a few hours, with the werewolf mace next to his bed, and a knife under his pillow.

  
When he wakes up less than three hours later, it is to screaming in his head, and the knife in his hand. Stiles is sitting up in a sweat, frantically glancing around the room in a panic, only to find the low light of morning. No Gerard, no kanima. His free hand instincitvely scrubs his scalp, and he tries to breathe normally, inhaling deep and exhaling only after counting to twenty. It feels like he hasn't slept for a moment, but he pulls on sweats and a shirt, and stumbles down the stairs towards the smell of fried meat and eggs.

His dad turns around with a smile that quickly turns into a frown, and its a re-run of every other time Stiles and his father meet each other's eyes for the past school year.

"You alright son?" he asks, setting a plate of eggs, turkey sausage, and toast in front of him at his usual seat of the table. Stiles goes for the pot of coffee first. "You look like hell."

He freezes in place, nearly missing the mug he's supposed to be pouring the bitter fuel into. He does get sugar on the counter, his hands are shaking so badly, but when he goes for the milk his reflection in the glass of the coffee pot is perfectly bruise free. He stirs until the coffee looks more like mud and less like motor oil.

"I'm fine," he says, and no one fucking believes it, because he sounds like his dog just died, if Stiles ever owned a dog in his life.

He sits down and tries to pretend he's really into eating even though his stomach wants nothing to do with any of it. He looks up and his father hasn't taken a single bite, staring him down over his own off-white porcelain mug.

"Really, Dad! Its all good, I just stayed up late studying for finals, thats all. I'm worried about," he takes a breath, and tries to think of something other than impending death and murder on the horizon and what the fuck is Derek not telling him and how many new werewolves in town are there and what the fuck do they want, "Scott getting held back."

His Dad nods, a small smile tugging at this thin mouth, pulling the age lines into something other than a frown for once. The worry creases between eyebrows and hairline ease ever so.

"You're a good friend Stiles, and I'm sure if there is anyone that can keep Scott from falling behind, its you," he says proudly, taking up his fork to shove a whole sausage into his mouth, "but you need a good night's sleep to do well yourself son."

Stiles nods, and says something along the lines of him trying to do just that, when he knows its a huge fucking lie, and his Dad cant possibly believe him because when has Stiles fallen asleep before any hour in the am since he turned 13? Twice, he thinks, when he was really sick and couldn't be bothered to do anything else.

His dad says something about going back to work to deal with more of the Whittemore fiasco, and something about the amount of 'whitteless' puns around the station had better stop when this is over, and gives Stiles a quick hug before checking the safety on his sidearm and heading out the door. John Stilinski never checked it before, not once. Its a habit thats begun since the mountain lion in the school parking lot, and has become an hourly nervous tick since Matt slaughtered the entire sheriff's department, minus the sheriff, thank whatever higher power existed for that.

Stiles doesn't remember dragging himself back to bed, but thats where he ends up. He doesn't move, because he doesn't know what his next move should be. How is he going to get rid of Gerard? How can he even plan it? He's an idiot if he thinks for a second that his dad isn't going through his things at every possible free moment to make sure Stiles isn't doing drugs or suddenly joined a gang because to the casual observer these are the only reasons behind his radical shift in behavior. That's why Derek, whose phone number he only has because Scott forced him to take it, for emergencies, is in his phone as Jack London. If one looks under groups, it says Douchenozzle.

Back to point, Stiles does not know anything about how to commit a murder, but he knows to how to stop them, and it always goes back to the evidence. Little creepy clues at the murderer's lair that tip off what they're really up to when not pretending to be perfect model citizens to throw everyone else off the trail of their killing spree. Stiles knows he needs to be careful to not do exactly that. So he doesn't write anything down. He simply lies there, and he thinks. When he gets sick of thinking, he goes down to the basement and tries to lift some of his dad's weights.

The sun sets without a single good idea or a single text from anyone about Boyd and Erica. Stiles has sore and aching limbs from the physical exertion they are clearly not in anyway used to, and a few words like "Ask about Rowan" and "Family History," jotted down in his messy scrawl on notebook for English class. He hopes his dad will think its an assignment for his finals essay, and not a plot to commit first degree murder and get away with it.

He doesn't know which idea terrifies him the most; Gerard killing him, Gerard killing his Dad, or his Dad putting him in prison.  
Either way, his Dad loses him.

Stiles eventually does his homework, on the whim that maybe he'll actually live long enough to graduate, so he should probably keep his GPA high enough for the college's he's actually smart enough to successfully attend.

Eventually the Adderall abuse and lack of food forces Stiles to put a stop to work altogether as a mild headache turns worse, and he puts down his medication for pain killers. His phone is suddenly in his hand again, and though it still shows no new messages, it keeps finding its way back into his idle hands every few moments, waiting for something to happen.

He drinks three cups of chamomile tea and is still awake when the alarm clock goes off in the morning.

Sheriff Stilinski is already at work when Stiles trudges to the kitchen on heavy feet. He has zero appetite and wishes he could simply avoid everyone and everything on the planet, simply hole up and plot murder without the distractions or the questions or the pitiful faces. He drinks his coffee and practices lying under omission, because though Boyd and Erica are still MIA, a fact that tugs at something between Stiles' ribs, he has to go to school with at least two other werewolves and whatever the hell Jackson was now.

Stiles barely has enough time to get dressed, pulling on the first clothes he finds that hang off his frame comfortably because literally everything hurts, and shove his homework into his bag before running out the door. He'll have to drive pretty recklessly to get to class on time, and its no accident. He's hoping that if he takes long enough, he'll get in mere moments before class and expertly avoid having to speak to anyone for at least an hour or so.

He speeds too well and gets there still before the bell. The glamor is still holding, even as he pokes his face and cringes in pain in his rearview mirror, the invisible bruises are still just that. He practices a smile that hurts like nothing he's ever felt before. He can do a lopsided grin though, and thats good enough. He walks slowly because his ribs hurt when he walks this morning, like the wounds have somehow only sunken deeper overnight, and tries to make it look like the non-chalance of one who does not give a single fuck if he's late for class. He's a sophomore, its the language of his people, those who are no longer freshman and are not yet concerned about college. There no people on the planet who could give less of a fuck about life.

It works because Scott claps a hand on his shoulder while Stiles is pretending to get something out of his locker, when all of his books are already in his bag. Really, he's hiding behind the door, which he knows is stupid because werewolves, but he's running on a few hours of sleep in a few days, his brain isn't quick on the uptake.

He's slow and sluggish and could be easily taken now more than ever. All he has is a bottle of Wolf Mace, because knowing his luck the knife would fall out of his bag in class and golly his Dad would just love that. Get suspended after you get your pops fired, sure Stiles, brilliant idea. But was suspension really much worse than abduction?

Stiles has to focus on whatever Scott is staying to keep his breathing in line.

"Oh and your face looks like shit."  
That one brings him back.

"Wait - what?!" Stiles whips out his phone and turns on the front facing cam. The only marks he can see on his face is the smattering of moles he's had since birth. "Dude, I can't see a thing." He snaps a quick photo and hands Scott the phone, "See?"

"Huh" Scott shrugs, "Must be a werewolf thing."

Stiles flails in exasperation because this is his fucking life, where Stiles actually learns magic that works that isn't from a Harry Potter book or a DnD manual, and none of his friends can actually see it.

Seriously, his fucking life.

The flailing hurts and Stiles couldn't give a fuck less. He's estimated that at least 1/3 if not more of his body to be bruised or otherwiser in serious fucking pain, everything is going to hurt no matter how easy he tries to take it.

Scott stops talking to him all of a sudden, and the reason becomes abundantly clear when Isaac appears out of nowhere, glued to his best friend's side. Stiles tries not to take it personally. He has his father, he has had Scott for years. Until Derek turned Isaac from powerless teenager to furry asshat in need of a manicure, all the guy had was his seriously abusive father. He knows better than most, his Dad made quite a few house calls over the years.

"You okay Stiles?" Isaac asks, and Stiles is so used to him just being a dick that the question floors him. He nods once, practiced half smile, because Isaac will hear the lie, and the two get back to talking about where to look for Erica and Boyd next.  
Stiles wonders if their parents have reported them missing. He wonders if they have parents, and he doesn't know which notion is worse. He then thinks about his mom and how he would be without his dad either, and covers up his lungs sudden halt in regular oxygen intake with a rough cough that the two wolves surprisingly don't seem to notice.

His brain starts reciting Princess Bride while he hefts his backpack over his one good shoulder, the side of his body he kept covered by the basement floor that night while an old man kicked the crap out of the other, and follows Scott to first period English 10.

Allison gives Scott a weak smile that falters when she see's Stiles following after him. If his glamor is faulty, nothing about her expression gives it away.

When the bell rings Stiles has no memory of anything that was discussed. His notes are half-formed sentences, and the margins are filled with doodles of bats, black inky masses with teeth, and he thinks there's a picture of the exact same type of wolfsbane flower he ripped out of Victoria's green house.

He at least has enough sense to hand in his homework on the desk, and jot down tonight's assignment before following the herd out the door, where he immediately shoulders his way to the nearest bathroom. He uses the privacy of a stall to take two more Aderall, because people tend to report you for popping pills in the middle of the hallway. When he shoves the water bottle and pills back in his bag, he flushes the toilet to at least pray pretend, and goes to wash his hands.

He isn't alone.

Jackson is standing there like he was waiting the whole goddamn time, which is creepy and makes Stiles wonder if this apparent wolfing out while both Hales impaled him, seriously what the hell was that shit even about, actually put him on his side or not.

Which was stupid, because Jackson is only on one side, and that was that of his supreme doucheliness.

"Stilinski."

"Your doucheliness," Stiles makes a show of bowing, even though it is the most painful thing he has done all day, "Did you come to check yourself for scales, or are you afraid you'll molt and all that pretty boy skin will fall off?"

"You look like shit."

"You've looked worse. Your tail made you look fat. Don't think werewolves have one, but the sideburns will look great on you, really, can't wait. Send photos so I can see if you look worse than Isaac."

"Very funny."

"Ya know, the prettier you are, the uglier you wolf. Its a proven fact. Ever seen Erica? Trust me, you're glad your girlfriend is immune."

Jackson doesn't say a thing, just pins him down with an unblinking stare that makes Stiles think his next move will literally be one where his neck moves into an impossible angle, and the guy starts hissing, because this is his life where a supernatural response is the expected outcome.

"You told Lydia everything," he says plainly, like he's telling Stiles something from class, which is just weird because he and Jackson don't have conversations other than verbal jabs at one anothers person, no real sharing of information or connection happens.

"Yeah."

Jackson is suddenly just there, and inhales and his eyes are too blue to be anything human which makes no sense because Scotts are gold and Derek's are red what the shit. Whatever he smells, he leans away, and Stiles doesn't know if he just reeks of fear or something else. Jackson doesn't make a look of his usual disgust, but its a look of...something.

One of the dude's hands is on his shoulder, and Stiles jumps because he can't fucking help it, Jackson is moving too fast for him to mentally catch-up with, and Stiles doesn't know if he's tired or Jackson just hasn't gotten the ropes of Being a Teenage boy Being a Werewolf Still Pretending To Be Just a Teenage boy quite yet.

"Thanks," he says, and he's gone without another word.

Stiles realizes that Jackson just thanked him for saving his life. And maybe for everything. Its nice for the few seconds he's thinking that Jackson tried to be nice for a second and it was awkward as fuck but at least the douchebag tried, but then he's just thinking of Gerard's dying words, and he's clutching a crappy porcelain sink while his lungs seem to collapse and the bell rings.

His glamor falters in his reflection for a second before it re-rights itself, and he goes over his best kill scenarious to date as he skids down the hall to Spanish 2.

It makes his chest loosen and his heart beat steady quicker than anything else he tries.


	3. Triggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't matter where he is or who is around.
> 
> Nothing and nowhere is safe.

The Adderall doesn't even get him through to lunch.

Half of the torture of Chemistry is that it's the last class before the promise of food. This is much of the reason behind Stiles hatred of the course, and his teacher's hatred of him. Stiles loves chemistry, he's currently researching a great deal of it to figure out proper modes of killing geriatric psychopaths. He has no idea what he does or says, one moment Scott is telling him something, he assumes about how Allison's hair catches the light and they must be soul mates, and the next Harris is lurking over him like Snape, only smaller and really less horrifying looking. Harris doesn't scare him, he fights killer lizards and throws lacrosse balls at werewolves. Stiles looks around the room, and Jackson, bless his douchey reptilian heart, actually looks almost sympathetic. Scott looks only more confused.

"Mr. Stilinski. That is the third time you have disrupted my class. Have you been paying any attention at all?"

"To the last molecule, to the atom even."

"Comedy will not win your place here, Mr. Stilinski. Detention afterschool, I think, will help to remind you where your focus in my classroom lies."

He's been doodling things with very big teeth again. He decides to make improvements them upon with a scarf and gigantic aviators. The scarf says Lord Douchebag.

Because if Stiles can't make jokes about the lizards and werewolves and fuck only knew what else in his life, he probably would go insane yet.

Stiles gets away with lunch in silence. Everyone else is talking about where to look for Boyd and Erica next. Lydia is making a grid to search the area so nothing is missed, while Allison is teaching them what she knows about tracking. There's a moment of even more awkward silence as it seems to dawn on the others that Allison was the one who captured them in the first place.

Stiles doesn't understand why its so fucking surprising that the girl with the last name Argent hunts fucking werewolves, no shit, really? You don't say?

He then realizes how exact this thought to mindset of a certain asshole he is definitely not speaking to or thinking in anyway about, and he can't help the snort of something like laughter that escapes him between wolfing down cold tater tots.

Everyone turns and stares at him like he just broke a minute silence at a funeral.

"What? I'm not laughing at any of this I promise, just, it’s stupid. My thoughts, not this. This is not stupid. This is important. Why are you looking at me like I just kicked your puppy?"

Lydia blinks like he's said something innately stupid, like milk is an acid, or aluminum can be corrosive.

"Has no one told you?"

Isaac sneers because there is nothing that little shit loves more than being on the inside for a change, and watching others scramble at the fringe to keep up.

"Derek isn't speaking to him about it, and we're not allowed to either."

"On account of your face?" Scott asks, who now looks like he has kicked his puppy for not telling him about his talk with Derek. Stiles doesn't know which would be more awkward to mention, the part where his bruises go further than Scott will ever know, or the awkward boner that totally did not happen and Stiles will probably punch anyone who ever found out.

"On account that Derek is a fucking asshole who needs to learn a thing or a hundred about personal boundaries."

Everyone is looking at him like he's going to regale them with the daring and heroic tale about getting kidnapped and thrown back like the small fish in the pond, which is so depressingly accurate Stiles chest tightens a fraction.

"I'm not talking about it, so just go back to your search and rescue operation. If I had any useful information that would help, I would have given it to you already."

Stiles dumps the chilidog that looks even more unappetizing than that time Scott dared him to eat dog food into the trash, and spends the remainder of lunch in the library. Despite the fact that half of it is still roped off with caution tape from Jackson's previous kanima theatrics, it’s still more comfortable than being the only defenseless human at a table full of supernatural creatures.

And the rest of his classes are so mind-numbingly simple that Stiles can literally spend all of them thinking about committing murder and still get straight A's. Really, he just goes to write down the homework assignments, and pass them in. Most of his actual learning occurs at home, or in economics because Coach is actually funny enough to be engaging.

Stiles still goes to his locker though he has no idea why, because it’s not like he gets to actually leave. He debates writing now murder plots in Spanish, but that’s just dumb and could be easily translated. He should at least pick something no one reads. Like Greek. But that’s too fucking time consuming, he's not even sure how he's going to pull this off yet. What if he can't pull it off?

Scott tells him something about going off to help the search for Boyd and Erica.

"I know you're not, and that’s okay, but I will tell you if we find them, okay?"

"Okay," Stiles nods, and when he looks up at Allison walking towards him, she isn't smiling.

She knows.

"Stiles. Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Stiles slams his locker door so loudly even Isaac jumps. He straightens his scarf and pretends it didn't happen, because badass werewolves do not jump, abused orphans or not.

"I can't right now, I have to get back to chemistry. I'm sure Harris would love to give me more detention  if I’m late for my torture," and he says the last word with a snarl of a sneer that isn't like him at all, and Allison's already fair skin pales a few more degrees.

"Stiles," she tries anyway, reaching out to him like she actually wants to apologize. Stiles shrugs it off like it burns.

"I'll talk to you later, Scott."

He's never been so early for detention in his entire life. If Harris is surprised by this, he doesn't show it. This actually works out fine, Stiles realizes, because he can just sit and do his homework and no stupid supernatural douchebags will interfere or fuck up his day.

He remembers then that Gerard Argent was principal before, and wonders if he would have gone so far as to poison the cafeteria food with wolfsbane to find out just how many of his students were something not human.

Its crap, Stiles thinks as he snaps the lead of a mechanical pencil trying to balance an equation, the werewolves aren't the monsters. The people are.

When Harris has to tell him to go home without Stiles prompting him half a dozen times that such and such holding is unconstitutional, he looks concerned then. Stiles shrugs it off like he does the rest, and goes to the locker room, which he regards as the single most dangerous room in the whole fucking school, and it’s so late that Coach is gone home already.

He pauses and waits, but nothing steps out of the shadows with a sassy remark or a look that means to kill, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He just has to get his gym bag and get out, that’s all. His uniform needs its end of season washing. Usually it ends up home with after the last game, but he didn’t have time to grab it, on account of getting kidnapped and all that.

Stiles gets his locker open before the memory hits him. It’s a fucking punch to the gut, as fresh and even more painful that the purple and red blotches that are decorating a third of his body. One moment elation, greatness, feeling like maybe being human is enough, maybe he can do something after all. And in that perfect moment, that one second of 'holy fucking shit I WON THE GODDAMN GAME NOT JACKSON ME HOLY SHIT ME' he's stolen. His moment robbed, happiness gone, and all with Scott and his Dad and everyone he is supposed to count on to keep him safe standing just a few feet away from him.

It doesn't matter where he is or who is around. Nothing and nowhere is safe.

The knowledge sends him to his knees so hard he's certain he's added bruises to the collection. The hard and deadly reality of it lodges in his throat, cuts off his reason, his oxygen, his will to do anything at all.

How the hell is he going to take down Gerard on his own if he couldn't even keep himself safe with literally every werewolf in Beacon Hills all around him?

His red hoodie is pulled tight around him, like a child with a blanket, and he would be fucking annoyed with himself for pulling this crap if he was in any right state of mind, but his chest hurts and it feels like he's back in that pool with Derek sinking further down because he can’t fucking breathe and he swears he can hear the asshole’s voice right now, calling his name.

"Stiles! Stiles, just breathe!"

There's a hand gripping onto him, blunt fingers digging into his shoulder, and in just seconds, it’s gone. Not the hand, but everything else. His chest doesn't feel like its caving in anymore, but whats more his chest doesn't hurt at all. He thinks he can actually laugh now without cringing.

When he takes in a shuddering breath, his first thought is not to thank whoever is beside him putting up with his ridiculous fucking panic attack, the fourth one of the day and it’s not even dark out yet, but rather it’s the same one that drove him to the far corner of the bathroom, not quite in the showers but almost, to hide, to cover up.

_Please just don’t let them see._

He moves slowly, not trusting the pain that has currently gone on vacation to stay banished while he moves, and extracts himself out of the tiny ball of sarcastic teenage boy he has managed to curl his body into. He's not small and yet Derek is huge kneeling next to him on the balls of this feet, it’s quite the feat. Derek, whose life he has saved more times than he can count. Derek, who wasn't there that night. Derek, who never came for him. Derek, who despite Stiles helping him and his wolves time and time again, did not deem him fit enough to at the least inform him about whatever threat they were facing now. Derek, who is looking at him, wearing a stupid v-neck and a stupidly concerned face. Until Stiles lowers his hood, and that face turns to a mix of shock and anger.

"What do you want sour wolf?" he croaks, his voice cracking from whatever he was doing before. He knows wailing and gasping like he's drowning tends to be the theme.

"You sounded like you were dying and you didn't go to your Jeep. What did you do to your face?"

Stiles levels him with a glare that actually makes Derek think about backing up. He almost flinches.

"I fell and hit a doorknob asshole, we humans are clumsy and prone to painful accidents."

"You are in too much pain to be from a fucking door knob Stiles, and we both know it’s more than your face. Just as we both know that there is no way you are _perfectly healed."_

Stiles doesn't stand up so much as inch up the wall, and sure enough, it is perfect in the mirror. It looks even better than this morning. He has color he didn't have before, like his skin actually saw the outside world for more than a collective hour a day.

"You can’t see it?"

Derek glares as he pushes himself to his feet in one graceful movement that makes his shirt ride up, and Stiles totally doesn’t' stare because seriously, he's bi and lonely, not an idiot.

"What I see is the deep and painful bruises gone, but still there." His eyes turn red, but he isn't pissed, he's just...focusing.

Jesus fucking Christ did alpha werewolves have x-ray vision because that was a terrifying line of fucking no.

"You're using magick," he says finally, and his eyes turn from just red to glowing.             

Okay, maybe he is pissed.

"And you're using supernatural capabilities, which is basically the same thing, asshole. I'm just trying to level the playing field."

"Level the-" Derek cuts himself off with a huff, shoving himself to his feet and managing to tower over Stiles despite the fact that they're the same goddamn height. The leather jacket Derek wears still hangs over his hands, and he wonders what’s the point when clearly he has the money for something that fits better. Maybe it belonged to his Dad, or a brother. It’s a thought that makes his throat lock up and Derek's nostrils flare a bit because of course Derek can see right through him and really, that’s probably why Stiles hates him so much.

The stubborn asshole can see through everyone and be completely in shadow himself.

Said stubborn asshole was now so far into Stiles personal space that the boy could smell the werewolf’s aftershave and count the flecks in his stupid beautiful eyes.

"This isn't a game Stiles. You can't just play around with this shit. Magic is not a fucking toy you can just use to cover a pimple or make Lydia want to go out with you. Its real and it can get you hurt. Or it could hurt someone else. It could kill the people you love most, do you understand?"

"You think I don't know that already?!" Stiles stalks across the damp tile floor, and does what he came here to do in the first place, throws his locker door open with a smacking metallic clang that echoes in a sonic shatter, and tosses his gym bag to the ground.

"This was my game. I used to suck at it, actually. So did Scott. Do you remember the day you gave us his inhaler? He never used it again. I actually won that stupid championship game Friday night. And you know what? It didn't fucking matter. Because I was taken. In front of Scott, and my Dad, and-" Stiles is panting now, and it takes him a moment to realize Derek has taken a few steps towards him again. Like Stiles’ fucking agony is some sort of magnetic pull that Derek can't break free of.

"And no one came for me. I helped break Isaac out, fully knowing that he could rip my fucking face off. I got my dad fired thanks to this marry fucking hell that was you're brilliant idea to turn Jackson, thank you so much for that. I've saved your life again and again and again. I put my ass on the line for you and your pack.  For Erica even, who gave me a freaking concussion. I keep trying to save you all and when it comes down to it, none of you were there to save me. The one time I needed you and yours, and no one fucking came. You don't need to fucking remind me how dangerous all of this crap is, believe me, I got my fucking wake up call. Many, many times over, in many, many places. I'm not a part of your pack, and I never will be, so tell me, why the hell are you even here?" Stiles is gasping for air like he's run a marathon, and he's totally fucking crying in a very ugly and not at all adult manner, and he couldn't give a flying fucking about any of it.

"I saw your Jeep never left the parking lot. I wanted to make sure you got home safe," Derek says like each word has been painfully extracted under intense torture and interrogation. His eyes match Stiles' hoodie, and he's expecting the super fucking creep I Am The Alpha voice at any second. Stiles isn’t sure if he Derek has a great deal of control, or if Stiles simply knows how to hit all of his buttons.

He's thinking about something else that has nothing do with buttons because Derek doesn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space, which should at least be out of immediate mouth pressing range, fuck.

"That doesn't explain why you're here."

"Well someone needed to keep an eye on you."

Stiles gets somehow more pissed off at this, because really? Who saves whose furry ass around here?

"I do not need a baby sitter! I am not a fragile fucking string ready to snap or fray at any given moment."

Derek decides the answer to this is stride forward and pin Stiles lower back to awkward and cold sink bases behind, stupidly attractive arms because werewolves bracketing him on either side to block off any form of escape. One hand slowly crawls up Stiles neck, and twists his face in the mirror, where in its reflection apparently Derek can see what lies beneath his spellcraft, an issue he will fix later, because Derek looks mad enough to put Stiles head through the glass.

"You're hurt, Stiles. Badly enough that I can smell it. You are a bruised and broken and terrified human boy that could be snapped in half by someone like me and you wouldn't ever recover. Whatever did this to you has you so petrified that you are nearly scaring yourself to death, and for some idiot reason you won't tell me what the hell is responsible."

If Derek says anything after that, Stiles doesn't hear it. All he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears while his body seems to try to shut down just to remind him how weak and pathetic he truly fucking is in the face of supernatural forces.

"Get, get, get," he tries to form a sentence but he's chocking on the first syllable alone.

"What Stiles what?! I'm sorry, I just, tell me what you need-"

Stiles wants to laugh. If only it were that easy. But there isn't enough therapy in the world for this, and there isn't a therapist you can exactly talk to about fucking werewolves. He already this conversation with himself last night when he couldn't fall asleep no matter what he tried. Drugs will only dull the sensations, and no amount of therapy will allow him to talk about the actual source of the trauma at hand.

The only thing that is going to allow him to breathe like a normal person and live some semblance of a life, at least one where he isn't jumping at every fucking shadow in the dark, is Gerard Argent's head on a plate. There's no way Derek will simply get that for him.

He'll have to get it himself. 

"Get. The Hell. Out. You couldn't keep Boyd and Erica safe, what the hell makes you think you can protect me?"

In Derek's defense, he doesn't tear his throat out with his teeth. But there's a sort of rumble that Stiles tells himself is the boiler room when it’s totally not. And he tells himself it’s not a total turn on when it 100% is, because seriously, his life.

"I'm not leaving, until you do."

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard his face hurts, and grabs the gym bag off the floor, which is the new most painful thing he has done today. He throws it over the same shoulder as his backpack. The balance is awkward and slows his normally fast gait, but if it slams into his ribs the other side he might scream.

He leaves Derek standing there to fume and does his best to get back to his car and get the hell away from the stupid over-protective Alpha werewolf who of course spent the entire day following him instead of looking for his actual betas because can't leave Stiles alone, oh no, not weak, fragile, without supernatural healing abilities Stiles.

Stiles throws the door to the student parking lot open with enough force that it slams into the brick wall, and he wants to scream.

Because Derek fucking Hale is waiting for him by his car, arms crossed and eyebrows impatient like he's been waiting for eternity, when the walk from locker room to parking is under four minutes.

He bites the inside of his mouth against all of the things he wants to say to him, and opts for ignoring the asshole instead, who politely steps aside to let him climb into the hefty CJ7, his trusty old baby, though he's staring unblinkingly the entire time.

He can't need a ride again, the Camaro is sitting their unoccupied on the other end of the lot. Unless he has someone stashed in the trunk, which wouldn't be a first.

"Go. Home. Stiles."

Stiles laughs at that, because really, who is Derek to tell him how to live his life? It’s like if he woke up one day and Scott was his tutor. He puts his old iPod on, and throws up the Saving Asses and Taking Names mix.

He's still laughing cruelly when he rolls down the window to tell Derek over the loud punk rock music with a twisted smile, "You're not the alpha of me."

The loud rock music isn't just to piss Derek off though. It’s so Derek won't confuse his sudden lift in mood, and he knows if he keeps the music loud enough, it gets harder for Derek to hear his heartbeat.

The last thing Derek ever needs to know, Stiles thinks, is that he just helped him solve the first problem in getting rid of Gerard Argent. The one thing Stiles knew was going to make this scheme infinitely more difficult was that the element of surprise was long since gone. Scott's plan only worked because he didn't tell anyone not even Stiles which he totally still isn't pissed off about, and because Scott McCall is the luckiest little shit Stiles has ever met.

But Stiles doesn't need stealth now.

Now that he knows that magick can kill.


	4. Psychologically numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter could be exactly what Stiles needs.

Stiles does not go home.

 He's had a tremendous fucking revelation of epic and terrifying proportions, and for once everyone in his life is occupied elsewhere. Dad is at work still trying to straighten out the "Whitteless" disaster, and Stiles is pretty sure he's going to be buried in paper work and reports till judgment day.

Or at least long enough for him to get rid of Gerard.

Probably not, but Stiles can dream. In a world where he has dreams that don't wake him up yelling at the top of his lungs.

Though there is also the simple matter of needing to replace his entire staff. He pushes the thought from his mind, before the feeling of being paralyzed and surrounded by so much blood actually causes him to spill his own.

Under Recent Searches in his smart phone navigation app is a seemingly random set of coordinates from Scott two nights ago. He's not sure how he's going to be with going back, but he has the bat in his trunk and werewolf mace in his pocket, for whatever good that will do him.

When he parks the Jeep at the chain link fence outside the warehouse, there are no signs of anyone else around. Not a car or a trace. It's as chilling as it is comforting. At least he still has cell service, so it’s not actually a horror movie.

If it were, less people would be dead, and everything would be poor dialog, and his life would probably be ten times more comical.

There would be certainly no geriatric masterminds beating innocent teenagers within an inch of their lives either.

The fence is still flattened from where he ran it down with the Jeep last night. There are no tread marks to identify it was his car, because he never thought to hit the brakes here. Between leaving home and getting to the warehouse Stiles was suddenly terrified that he held the only answer to Jackson's salvation, and every passing second was another moment that Scott and everyone else could already be dead. He never thought stop, just go faster, go faster, you're not going fast enough, _go_.

The tread marks can be seen inside the warehouse where Stiles nearly ran Jackson down with the car. He's not sure if he would have hit the brakes if Lydia wasn't in the car next to him. The warehouse looks somehow massive during the day, light pouring in him from long gone skylights and broken windows. Despite the multiple stories tall ceiling, there are no upper floors, just the rusty, decaying corpse of long-gone cat walk.

But the treads aren't what he's here for.

There's blood splatters in long dried brown all around the space, bullet casings that seem to roll with every step, and a truly impressive puddle of black sludge that looks like the shit from X-Files which totally did not give Stiles nightmares as a kid.

Stiles has a small knife that he has also coated with wolfsbane, so small it really can’t do more than deliver a two inch flesh wound but he likes to think the poison will count for something, and an empty water bottle from his gym bag. He has to get a decent amount of that massive puddle of black goo (truly massive it’s disgusting how one could throw up that much and not be dead what the hell), and get it home with him.

With the toes of his Converses precariously on the edge, Stiles nervously crouches down. He really has no desire to get the stuff on his hands, half of his nightmares are this stuff coming to life like Venom to swallow him up, but as he reaches down with the knife, he's pretty sure there is no way he comes away from this clean. Fortunately, the bottle is a nice metal one with a really wide mouth, and the blade is small but decently sharp. It shouldn't be too hard.

That is until a voice clears its throat, and Stiles knife slips through the goop and Jesus fucking Christ it’s not dried its actually still goo Stiles might throw up, and he has to catch himself from face planting into, which he only manages to do by throwing a hand out into the sickening crap. It makes a disgusting slop of a noise, and when he looks towards the source of the sound, it’s another goddamn Hale. The only other person he wants to see even less than Derek, his Uncle, runner-up for Creep of the Year, Peter.

His stupidly handsome and confident face falters when Stiles leans back on his heels. He looks down at the knife, and even in its tiny little reflective surface, the few spaces he can see between the black goo, are his skin once again covered in bruises.

Oh yeah, mountain ash.

Why didn't he think of that sooner.

Peter looks less corpse like than someone who can back from the dead should, really, it’s unfair. He is immaculately dressed in the latest of creeper fashions, keeping it casual with dark jeans and a maroon v-neck. He looks comfortable, like following around skinny teenage boys is his normal past time, and the smile say it is his also his favorite, and Jesus fucking Christ that should not make his face turn red.

At least covered in bruises, the blushes don't show.

Peter's smile gets wider and Stiles remembers that the zombie is still a goddamn werewolf and he doesn't need to see him blush.

Seriously, his life.

"What is with you Hales and the stalking? Don't you have anything better to do?"

"What makes you think that you're something worse to be doing?"

Stiles response is to huff in silence, lifting his black goo covered hand form the mess and wiping it on his jeans. He wonders if the glamour will come back if he can get it all off, or if it’s a touch thing that will have to be reset. He should have brought more with him to school, and he nearly snarls for a second, because seriously Stiles, you cannot be making mistakes like that anymore.

Mistakes get you killed, and he can't take down Gerard if he's no longer living.

He doesn't have Peter's creepy as fuck whatever the shit werewolfy mind-fuck magick skills, if he dies he will no doubt stay that way.

But would Peter come back twice?

"A general consensus probably. Why are you here?"

"Why are you?" he asks as he strides over, careful to skirt the edges of the probably toxic waste Stiles still has ever intention on taking home with him. Even if it does smell like death and decay. He figures that’s a good sign that it'll actually work, even it does actually make him throw-up.

Peter surprises him by kneeling right beside him, close enough that their legs will brush up against one another if Stiles dares to move.

"I'm trying to kill someone," is what Stiles finds himself saying, and again remembers that Peter is a fucking werewolf and will hear that the sarcasm in his voice does not match the perfect steady beat of his heart.

"The someone who did this to you?" Peter asks, and his voice is something low and silky and Stiles doesn't even think that has anything to do with being a werewolf it’s just Peter being the creepy sex icon he is. Did he really just call him that?

Sleep, Stiles needs to get more sleep. That is exactly why Stiles doesn't flinch when Peter reaches out to touch him. Also because if he does he'll either fall back on his ass, or tumble face forward into mountain ash slime, and neither sounds like a good idea.

He debates stabbing Peter with the knife and then doesn't because the knife is tiny and Stiles is not fast enough, and Peter will heal and then he'll have yet another person that he will need to kill in the immediate future.

So he lets Peter touch him.

Stiles tries really hard not to cringe, and really Peter is being gentler than his nephew which is so weird that Stiles should not be thinking about it in as much detail as he is, but fuck it’s so oddly comforting that he doesn't know whether to lean in or be sick.

Peter's hand runs along his swollen jaw until his thumb reaches his split lip, and it stays there for many more seconds than the hand of a grown man ever should.

Sick, he's probably going to be sick.

But then Peter is taking away his pain and holy shit Stiles didn't even think he knew how to do that, and the man's smile wavers again, so quickly that if you were not the attention freak who studies every detail that Stiles so truly is, you would probably miss it entirely.

He still feels like he's been shot full of something nicer than Novocain and without the mind-numbing faintness of narcotics.

"What did my nephew do to you, Stiles?"

And then he's remembering its Peter fucking Hale all too quickly.

"Derek didn't do anything to me, why would he?"

"No," Peter all but whispers, because they're so close he doesn't have to speak very loudly to be heard, and Stiles should really not be watching his mouth. This is a hazard to his already declining mental health, "Why would he do anything to save you? After all your little merry band has been through together, why would he leave you behind?"

Stiles chooses to ignore him for simply dragging the water bottle through the slime pool. It’s strangely gritty between his fingers, like some sort of clay, but it’s not some nice pretty and simple earth element, its dead and decaying mass, as dark and twisted and not to be touched as the ex-alpha kneeling beside him.

It’s not long till the water bottle feels heavy.

"How did you find me here?"

"I followed you."

Stiles levels him with the same glare he just used on his nephew, but Peter doesn’t flinch. He smiles like Stiles has just given him the nicest and filthiest of compliments.

"I followed Derek, and then followed you." He pauses to watch Stiles long hands screw the lid on the bottle, and seems to enjoy the fact that they're not shaking, like even Stiles thought they would be. His grip is firm and steady. Something about that makes Peter's smile grow wider. "You still haven't answered my question."

Stiles doesn't know how to answer the question. There is really no good way to respond the eldest Hale that will ever end in your favor, and maybe this is why Derek is the king of awkward silences. He could lie, but he could have lied earlier too. Peter is terrifying, and manipulative, and also the creepiest goddamn person Stiles has ever met, and that includes Victoria Argent. But Peter also knows a thing or two about death magick, being an Undead American Werewolf.

Peter could be exactly what Stiles needs.

"Because I'm not pack. And apparently saving a fucking douchebag Porsche-driving kanima trumps saving your best friend. Priorities. A kanima is more dangerous and powerful than me."

Stiles says it not like the fact that it is, but a sickening sort of rivalry. A promise that such things are going to change, if he has to kill to do it.

Peter's small, soft smile is his most terrifying yet.

"You could have been, you know."

Stiles glares, and he doesn't know why he even bothers, because Peter seems to fucking thrive and grow on his rejection like some sick sort of demon, which is just probably dangerously close to accurate. Is Peter even still a werewolf? Has anyone even seen him shift? What the hell is he even sitting next to?

"Stiles, breathe. I'm not an Alpha anymore. I couldn't turn you if I wanted to."

Stiles does breathe, slowly, like his father always taught him. But his father couldn't teach him everything.

"And if you did? If you wanted to?"

"I wouldn't do anything you didn't want Stiles."

Stiles snorts, cause really, this is the guy that screamed at him over Lydia's dying body in a lacrosse field.

"Really? I'm supposed to trust you not to hurt me?"

"No. You're supposed to know that you are too valuable for me to consider harming."

Stiles laughs then, and its bitter and cold, fragments of ice made sound. The sound of something breaking apart in the tiniest of fissures.

"I think you may be wrong about that."

That, of all things, offends Peter. His eyebrows do that pissed off thing Derek's do whenever you suggest something other than the idiotic plan he's got cooked up this week that he really didn’t think over for longer than thirty seconds because if he did he would have seen that it’s a dumb fucking plan. His mouth loses its easy smile for a tightly pressed, thin line, and there are creases on his forehead that remind Stiles he's probably not as young as he looks. Or maybe he just aged really quickly physically after the fire. Stiles would be really happy never knowing.

"My nephew turned those idiot children because they _are idiots_ , Stiles. Derek is looking for power, but only the kind he can easily control. Foolish teenagers that have no one and nothing."

"I'm a foolish teenager," Stiles says, because really, someone should.

"You're not a fool Stiles," he says, his damn uncomfortably heated gaze finally leaving his inspection of Stiles person to look at the scene before him, a half-scraped up puddle of  black goo in a warehouse that also happens to contain tire tracks, blood splatters, and enough bullet casings that you can't really step without finding one.

"That's why you're here, getting the closest piece of Gerard Argent you can for a tracking spell. Or perhaps, you're planning something far more complex and fitting a punishment. Either way, you're not a fool."

But Stiles really thinks he is, because he is about to do something so incalculably stupid he's pretty sure Derek would actually hit him. Not just throw him against a wall and yell, but full on punch him in his already broken face.

"No, I guess I'm not. But I have no fucking clue what I'm doing or how I'm going to do any of it either," and Stiles is no sure why he is being so painfully honest to Peter fucking Hale. Wait, yes he is. Because Peter I Killed Everyone Who Was Even Slightly Involved In Killing His Family Hale is the only goddamn person he can be honest with that won't look at him like he's in need of repair.

Stiles swears to fucking God Peter bats his stupidly thick eyelashes at him, and for a second Stiles can see why Melissa would jump at a chance for a date with the guy. He truly can throw his personality from one way to the next like a flip of a switch as needed.

"What would you like me to help you with Stiles?"

"You're just going to offer your assistance?" Stiles asks as he straightens to his feet, almost buckling when his joints are too sore from sitting at a desk all day. Even with the pain momentarily gone from the work of yet another Hale, his back is still protesting. "Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"No," Peter says plainly as he follows suit, because clearly he has learned by now that dodging an answer with Stiles Stilinski gets you nowhere but under his intense scrutiny until you finally forfeit. "You will owe me a favor. Whatever I need, and whenever I call upon you."

Stiles snorts again as he folds the knife and shoves it into his back pocket, careful not to pick the one that already has his cell phone in it.

"I doubt there's much I could do for you."

Peter smiles from ear to ear, and puts an arm around Stiles shoulders while he walks back outside into the dying early evening light. Despite the difference in age, the difference in height is minimal, and Stiles is really at odds with how uncomfortable and comforting the simple touch is.

"When I'm through with you Stiles, there won't be anything you can't do."

~*~

Stiles and Peter swap numbers, which will never stop being weird in the history of man but Stiles would rather he have a more discreet way of contacting him than the older werewolf standing outside his bedroom window, seeing as its usually occupied by his nephew nine nights out of ten. Possibly ten out of ten, but Stiles is too terrified to look every night because seriously he could see fucking anything staring back at him.

The thought of the two surviving Hales fighting for his attention is a concept too strange for Stiles to even begin to imagine.

Peter tells him to pay a visit to Deaton. Stiles argues with him on the idea for nearly a minute until Peter calmly reminds him that while the mystically inclined werewolf knows a great deal, Deaton has the textual knowledge and resources Stiles needs. And as much as Stiles is terrified of the doctor finding out what he's up to and then making every effort to stop him, he knows Peter is right. The need for self-defense outweighs the risk of exposure.

Survival is his utmost priority.

That is how Stiles finds himself staring at a text from Peter telling him to just go in because Deaton isn't a werewolf and can't sense his lies, with the Jeep parked next to the doctor’s truck and another small Subaru that must be a patient. At least he's open today.

Scott's bike is nowhere to be seen, and Stiles breathes a little bit easier because of it.

Stiles still checks that he's armed before stepping out of his Jeep, and his eyes dart every step from the Jeep to the office's front door.

The bell rings when he walks in the front door, and Stiles doesn't see any sign of a four-legged patient. He's never been here without Scott, and he's unsure whether to ring the bell, or walk through the small door made of rowan that barred entry into the doctor's inner-sanctum.

The office feels different than the last time he was here though. The walls seem to hum now, and the small door is the loudest of them all. It’s like being inside a gentle white noise chamber, made to relax and soothe, halt anger and violence and suffering.

Stiles can feel the mountain ash and the magick in the office itself.

 There's a bell on the front counter too, but it feels wrong to give it a ring. It’s not as if he's here to bring a four-legged companion for a check-up. Though Derek could use one, perhaps to get the mountain ash stick removed from his ass before it does any further damage.

Now Stiles is just thinking about Derek's ass. Jesus fucking Christ he needs more Adderall. All of it. Maybe in some sort of healthy smoothie with frozen bananas and peanut butter like mom used to make before he passes out on Deaton's nicely cleaned floor.

"Doctor Deaton?" he asks loudly, because the practice is small and there isn't much of a walk from the front room to the back operating area.

"Stiles," he can hear the good doctor call from the back room, "Come on in, we're finished here."

He's sneakers squeak on the floor, and he realizes half way there that he's chewing on the cords to his hoodie when he actually steps inside the operating room and there is no dog or cat or domesticated animal of any kind at all.

There is only Deaton, a suspicious array of Clearly Not Medically Purposed things that are not even labeled properly unless mysterious symbols are now to be considered proper freaking labels, what looks like a topographic map of what he can only assume to be Beacon Hills laid out neatly over the entire exam table, and also his high school counselor. Deaton looks more worn out than Stiles has ever seen him, worn out and ready to snap, a far cry from the being of perfect cryptic and vaguely Zen advice which he is normally a veritable font of. The idea of him fighting with anyone aside from an Argent is unimaginable. They're both wearing way too much leather, really, it’s just unsettling.

Really, Stiles doesn't even know why he's remotely fucking surprised. The shadows could come to life and try to strangle him, and he's pretty sure he would just tell them to fuck off. He'd yell for Peter whose probably creeping somewhere in werewolf hearing range, and just tell them to go fuck themselves. This is Stiles Current State of Being.

"Stiles," Ms. Morrell says in the same cool tone she uses for their sessions, "it good to see you."

Stiles huffs like this is somehow funny, because it sort of fucking is.

"I knew you weren't just a goddamn counselor. If you're going through hell, keep going? Really? I'm pretty certain you're obligated to report talk like that to my parents and proper authorities. But I guess the rules don't apply when your patient runs around with werewolves and giant killer lizards."

"Which means you should stop by my office tomorrow and talk to me about whatever is on your mind. Your teacher's say you're looking very distracted."

Stiles rubs the back of his neck as if on cue, like the word somehow spawns restless movement just on utterance alone.

"...have you seen my medical chart?"

"More so than usual."

Stiles shrugs like he always does, too exaggerated to really be casual, but if it isn't the action doesn't fit in with his normally exaggerated everything.

"Just haven't slept well the past few nights. Killer lizard, psychotic nut job I actually went to school with, douchebag hunters, and your best friend’s ex shooting your pack doesn't actually lend to a good night's sleep. I'm alright."

Morell nods, her lips thin, and Deaton's usual calm pleasantness looks off. Stiles has interrupted something, he knows the awkward heat in the room all too well. It's like every time he had gone over to see Scott only to interrupt Scott's parents fighting, but trying and failing to pretend they hadn't.

This is exactly like that only with a lot of weird magick things and also lives on the line and how the hell do Morell and Deaton know each other anyway?

"Alan, we're not through here," she says coldly, in some harsh new tone Stiles has never heard before and is beginning to expect is in fact more normal to her than the kid-gloves one she uses on her students.

Deaton levels the same flat stare that he's used on far more terrifying monsters than whatever the hell his high school counselor is, and she leaves without another word.

"What can I help you with Stiles?"

Stiles shoves his hands in the pockets of his red hoodie, and tries not to fidget. Something about Deaton always reminds him of how young and out of place in all of this he truly is.

"Not dying, would be great," Stiles says finally.

Deaton levels him with the stare that says quite clearly he will be having none of Stiles smarm as he rolls up the map on the exam table. There aren't lines or a grid or anything like that on it, but rather symbols Stiles has not yet found in his research, a pendulum, and items that definitely look like something from Boyd and Erica- a worn out hockey puck and a leopard print compact mirror.

Well, at least Stiles knows that finding spells are a legit thing. Useful knowledge, that.

"I really need to get my hands on some mountain ash. I mean, a lot of mountain ash. All of the mountain ash. And also rowan. Can you buy it like a two-by-four? How do you make that happen? Also all of your books on magick."

Deaton blinks, and back is the small smile that says he is really deeply amused by the teenagers who constantly save the town around him.

"Is that all?"

"Some words on how spells effect werewolves would be cool too," Stiles adds, realizing too late that he's gesturing with every word from the excitement of it. "Maybe a wand?"

Deaton huffs a sigh and starts putting away all of his weirdly labeled jars, which is disappointing because Stiles really would rather he instead open them all up and tell Stiles all of their secrets.

"Was that a glamor before?" he asks, patient as always because Deaton deals with werewolves like Derek on the regular, so clearly Stiles is just easy as pie even at his worst in comparison to getting tossed in the back of their current alpha's trunk.

"Yeah, I slipped into some mountain ash and it sort of gave out after that."

Deaton nods like this is entirely normal conversation, and miraculously does not ask how he just slipped into mountain ash.

"You'll need to recast if before it will work again. What do you need the rowan for?"

"For a bat that breaks werewolves instead of the other way around."

Deaton straightens the last of his perfectly sorted and shelved jars, and looks at Stiles with something like concern and curiosity. It’s really hard to tell with him, and Stiles is just infinitely grateful to be in a room with someone who isn't a trained police officer or a werewolf.

"What are you planning on doing with it?"

"Not be helpless?" Stiles supplies, because maybe if he just plays it on the sly Deaton won't be any more suspect than usual.

"Stiles, that’s quite a weapon to have."

"I just want to be protect myself. I want to help. I can't keep sitting on the sidelines from all of this, and if I don't figure out something I'll either get killed or get someone else killed, and I'm not capable of dealing with either outcome."

Deaton just folds his arms and looks at him because that is not all Stiles is asking for and what he's asking for is really quite a lot.

"So please tell me how to learn magick safely so I don't do something stupid like blow my house up. Otherwise I will absolutely prowl the internet for hours upon hours and try anything that looks half-way legit, and probably end up summoning a demon of song and dance and spontaneous combustion and no one wants that."

Deaton grins like this is actually funny and maybe something that could actually happen and really Stiles should know better.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow for the rowan, but I believe I can help you with the rest. You really do need to be cautious with this Stiles. Magick is not a game, and using it for personal gains can be costly if you anger it so. Consider your actions very carefully."

Stiles thinks of the mountain of planning that needed to be done, the hours spent already, and the many more that lay ahead. This isn't going to be quick, and by quick, he means soon. It’s going to take time to develop whatever this force is, inside and around him, and to harness it to do what needs to be done.

He's snapped out of it by the presentation of a decently sized bag of mountain ash, that should at least cover the windows and doors of the house if he can pull of that trick again, and a few books that Stiles is already certain are just nice and fluffy practical theory and probably in no way contain a spell on How To Reach Out and Kill Somebody Without Ever Getting Caught, but he has to start somewhere.

"No worries, doc," he grins as he scoops the small load into his arms, and the smile is nearly genuine because holy shit, this is progress, "careful is my middle name."

Careful is not Stiles’ middle name, and he will never utter it to another soul so long as he lives.

But with this, Stiles can do careful. To kill a brilliant and horrifying mastermind of a human being, he will need every ounce of care he has.

What Stiles doesn't see is that the grin splitting his face is not pleasant, it’s the fucking terrifying bare of teeth of a predator closing knowing its on the right track.

                                                                                                                              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT PANIC. 
> 
> Take a deep breath.
> 
> Read the tags.
> 
> Keep breathing.
> 
> BONUS QUESTION (because I'm totally Coach here): Where do all of the chapter titles come from?


End file.
